It took until the Sunday of the third weekend after Labour Day for the last of the neighbour’s on his side of the lake to stop in, drop off a set of keys and a half-dozen post-dated cheques and say they’d see him next spring, and if anything happened to call them.
“You do have our number?” they always asked.
He’d smile and nod and tell them they had nothing to worry about. It was nothing to him, walking those five miles everyday. He preferred the off-season, when it was just him, the dog, the land and all that quiet.